


Eggnog

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Banter, Bruises, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk Mentions Pregnancy Breeding Lactation and Bestiality, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Incest, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-con-ish roleplay, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somnophilia, Top Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Drunk on holiday eggnog on New Year's Eve, Alpha Sherlock seeks out Alpha Mycroft.For the DW Season of Kink Holiday Challenge. My assigned kinks were: thrills, somnophilia, and bites/bruises.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/361097
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55
Collections: Season of Kink





	Eggnog

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. The dirty talk in this is pregnancy, breeding, and lactation kinks along with one mention of canine bestiality. Dub-con is because Sherlock's drunk and the somnophilia. There is also a bit of non-con roleplay with Sherlock baiting Mycroft into forcing his (Sherlock's) legs apart. 
> 
> Also, the Omegaverse isn't the super strong in this. I mean, they are both Alphas but compared to some of my other stories, being Alpha doesn't play a huge role except in the sort of taboo nature of it all.

Mycroft Holmes looked from the screen of his computer to the face of the grandfather clock which stood like a stalwart sentry to the left of the threshold of his study. Another hour or so. There was, he ruminated, an innate thrill to certain phenomena. The turning from an old year to a new one was one of these phenomena. And, he added, as the security system to the front door of his home bleeped, his brother was another.

Banging followed stomping which followed cursing.

“Mycroft! Where t’fuck are you?”

Drunk.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” replied Mycroft evenly. He closed and stowed his computer.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, clinging to it in a theatrical effort to remain upright.

“Workin’? Versooth, s’New Year’s Eve!”

“State secrets don’t compromise themselves, Sherlock. So, you decided to grace the festivity with your presence after all?”

Sherlock grunted. “I’d to tell Lestrade precisely where he was wrong about the Abernathy case, and then…”

He sniffed.

“Eggnog?” 

Sherlock snorted and replied, airily and surprisingly soberly, in an imitation of Mycroft's voice,

“One can expect the traditional from the Yard.”

“And you partook heavily?” A bit pedantic, but Mycroft was keen to assess just how much thrill this New Year’s Eve might hold for him.

“Are we playing ‘state the obvious’? I hate that one. You always win.”

Sherlock yanked off his scarf and deposited it in the chair on the side of the desk opposite Mycroft. He then struggled out of his coat and suit jacket and threw them carelessly on top of the scarf.

He circled the desk and leaned forward, hands on the arms of Mycroft’s swivel chair, his mouth purposefully in front of Mycroft’s nose, his lips purposefully parted to exhale the sweet, spiced, milky aroma on his breath. The boozy miasma mingled with Sherlock’s natural Alpha pheromone haze to produce an admittedly intoxicating perfume.

“Bourbon seems a rather extravagant choice for a gathering so large and indiscriminate,” observed Mycroft, ignoring the stirring of his prick and the warming of his blood.

“People brought their own batches. There was a contest. Lestrade’s recipe won. Deservedly, I may add.”

Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement of Sherlock’s tongue as it swiped his bottom lip, feline-style. 

“You tried all the entries?”

“Naturally. Not sporting otherwise.”

“And what, pray tell, do you know about sport, Sherlock?”

“Not a thing, except that I have a strong desire to be in the saddle. My!”

At that moment, three things occurred simultaneously: the grandfather clock struck the half hour, Sherlock fell to his knees, and Mycroft neatly parted his legs.

Sherlock’s buried his face in Mycroft’s crotch, mouthing wetly at Mycroft’s hardening prick through the layers of clothing.

Mycroft petted Sherlock’s head. “This is my fifth best suit,” he cautioned as the fabric dampened.

“Sixth,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Fifth,” corrected Mycroft. “The Harris tweed acquired an unfortunate burn last week and had to be put down.”

“Smoking kills, Mycroft. Wardrobes as well as lungs. Says it right there on the package. Oh, are you going to fuck me or not?”

Sherlock’s impatience was part of the thrill, too. As was Mycroft’s own.

“I’m not going to _fuck_ you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised up, his eyes wild, his body tense.

“I’m going to _breed_ you.”

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned out his relief. Then he jumped to his feet and hastily divested himself of everything but his unbuttoned dress shirt. 

Mycroft drew a bottle of lubricant from a drawer. “That is, if you are able to take my prick. I have my doubts. I predict your cavity will be found wanting in girth as well as depth.”

“Oh, I can take you, Alpha.” Sherlock pivoted. He stepped his feet apart and bent forward, raised his arse and spread his cheeks in Mycroft's face.

Mycroft plucked a tissue from a box on the desk and carefully removed the enormous plug by the ring. “You’ve been sitting on this all night?”

“Getting sopping drunk all the while.”

“Someone might have taken advantage.”

“Not of an Alpha. Not of a freak. Not of this arsehole’s arsehole.” 

Mycroft unbuttoned his waistcoat. His prick was hard, leaking, begging for attention, but he was not going to be the one to handle it at this juncture. He waved a hand at his crotch, and Sherlock deftly unfastened his belt and trousers, still licking his lips in that maddening way.

Sherlock gasped when his fingers brushed bare skin and pubic hair. “No pants? And in your fifth best suit?” He tut-tutted. 

“I had an appointment at a breed house tonight. I wanted to come prepared, I mean, _knot_ prepared.”

Sherlock made a small choking noise. “Mycroft.”

“Needs must. How was I to know you were going to dive into the eggnog? Here.” Mycroft beckoned. 

Sherlock crawled into Mycroft’s lap, balancing precariously on Mycroft’s knees. The chair squeaked its indignation at the combined weight. Sherlock’s hands flew, quickly and expertly coating Mycroft’s prick with generous amounts of lubricant.

Sherlock lifted his body. Mycroft placed his hands at Sherlock’s waist to steady him. Sherlock set Mycroft’s prickhead at his entrance and slowly lowered himself, inch by marvelous inch.

Mycroft watched the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. They were already exhaling together.

So many taboos at once. The thrill was exponential. His brother, an Alpha, and this, this bizarre fascination of Sherlock’s provoked once a year by his imbibing of a banal holiday cocktail.

Sherlock sighed when he was fully sheathed, fully impaled. Then he dropped his head and stared, open mouthed, at Mycroft. His eyes were wide and dark grey like the North Sea. His lips curled into a smile with a bit of snarl as he rose then fell back down.

“Tight as a virgin womb,” Mycroft murmured.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s gaze turned brightly wicked. He bounced. The sides of his shirt fell open as he moved.

Mycroft tightened his grip on Sherlock’s waist and guided Sherlock forward, the better to take a dark pink nipple in his mouth. He sucked and flicked the nub with his tongue, then sucked some more.

“No milk yet,” moaned Sherlock. “Milk for your pups.” 

“Better get you primed, then,” said Mycroft, switching to the other nipple and taking it far more roughly, almost gnawing the tender bud.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Sherlock huffed as he bounced. “Knot me, Mycroft. Breed me. I need it so badly.”

“So broody.”

“Yes!”

“You’re wet and hot and tight. Just like an Omega cunt. Made for taking a thick Alpha prick. Like mine.”

“Oh, yes. But yours is the only prick I want, My. And, God, how I want it. Thought of nothing else tonight.”

Mycroft’s prick was throbbing, aching for release and more. His seed was pooling hot and tight in his groin. On pure instinct, he bucked up into Sherlock as Sherlock slammed down around him.

At last, they groaned together, and Mycroft's prick swelled.

“Ah!” Sherlock cried out. He threw his arms back and arched his chest, and his shirt fluttered to the floor. He was completely bare in Mycroft’s lap while Mycroft was, save for one small area, fully dressed.

Another delightful thrill.

Mycroft was forced to hold very tight, indeed, to prevent Sherlock from toppling backwards, but his Alpha strength, augmented by the adrenaline of the forming knot, was more than adequate to the task, even when Sherlock commenced to squirm and writhe like a fish on a hook, in the unlikely event that any fish ever desperately wanted to be hooked by the genitals.

“So. Full. Stretched. Beyond.”

Mycroft barely heard. He was too busy pissing bucketloads of come into Sherlock’s arse.

“Fill me with your pups, My.” Sherlock rubbed circles on his stomach. “Dozens.”

Mycroft bent to kiss Sherlock’s belly. “Make you plump. Swelling, distending, huge.”

“Waddling around.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed. “Like a house.”

“These, too.” Without releasing his grip on Sherlock, Mycroft rubbed Sherlock’s nipples with his thumbs. “Hanging low like your belly. Thick with milk. Leaking, dribbling, making a mess on the floor while I fuck you from behind.”

Sherlock swung forward. Once again, they were in real danger of toppling over, but in the other direction. Sherlock was curled up and around Mycroft’s torso. Their lower bodies remained locked together.

“You’re going to fuck me while I’m full of your pups?” slurred Sherlock.

Mycroft looked up.

Sherlock’s eyes were slits, fringed with long, dark, curled lashes that batted with drunken coquetry.

“Of course. You’ll be too big to move. Keep you in the nest, legs open, of course, ready for me as often and as long as I want. Might fuck you all day, just keep you plugged with my cock. Might be three or four times a day, whenever I take a break from work.”

“Yes! Oh, My, yes!” Sherlock crushed his nipple to Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft parted his lips and suckled roughly and greedily.

As they were now, with Sherlock plastered to Mycroft, and their tangled forms more or less stable, Mycroft’s hands were free to roam across Sherlock’s body, caressing, rubbing, pinching, and tickling at will.

He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock whimpered.

“Might get tired, though. Litter after litter after litter. Might lend you out for breeding. Cuff you in a stand with your legs spread and your hole gaping. Letting Alpha after Alpha fill you.”

Sherlock was moaning incoherently now and ineffectually trying to shove his nipple once more in Mycroft’s mouth.

“Yes,” Mycroft thought he was saying, “oh, yes, more pricks, more pricks, every prick, more pups.” 

“Why I’ll even let Old Carruthers’ Rex have a go.”

Sherlock gave a little shriek. 

Old Carruthers was a distant neighbour from their childhood, and Rex was his Great Dane.

Mycroft felt his knot deflate.

After a few ragged breaths, he helped Sherlock ease himself to standing.

Mycroft was watching the come begin to leak down Sherlock’s inner thighs and contemplating whether he might have to carry his brother to bed.

“Let’s have a toast, Brother Mine,” said Sherlock. His eyes, though still glazed, went to the bottom drawer of Mycroft’s desk.

Mycroft made a reluctant show of removing the small thermos flask and two mugs. He poured.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Their mugs touched. They drank.

“I prefer a touch of coconut cream in mine," said Mycroft.

His flaccid prick was still out. Sherlock licked his lips and ogled it as he sipped. Mycroft wrapped his fingers around it and gently played with it. He watched Sherlock watching him and it was, as ever, a thrill.

Utterly stimulating.

Without taking his eyes from Mycroft’s hardening prick, Sherlock put his mug on the desk beside the flask. So did Mycroft.

Sherlock and Mycroft both started at the clock.

Midnight!

It took less than a breath for Mycroft to stand. The chair rolled backwards, away from him. He grabbed Sherlock hard by the shoulder and push him face-first onto the end of the desk, away from the drinks. He spread Sherlock’s cheeks. His double thrust at the second chime brought his prick to full mast, and he pushed into Sherlock in time with the rest, spending, he was proud of himself, just after the twelfth.

He pulled out of Sherlock quickly and helped Sherlock to rise.

Sherlock touched Mycroft’s tie gently. “I’m going to sleep it off in the guestroom.”

“I’ll check on you in a bit.”

“Please do.”

Sherlock kissed his lips. Mycroft shivered.

Sherlock strode out of the room, naked, with come trickling down his legs and his clothes scattered about on the floor. 

Mycroft watched him go and felt, once more, a thrill.

* * *

Mycroft turned up the heat in the room and waited. He stood by the bed in the guestroom, watching Sherlock sleep and slicking his half-hard prick with lubricant. When the room was warm enough, he let his dressing gown fall to the floor and pulled back the covers, exposing a nude Sherlock. He bent over Sherlock, licking his balls and his pubic hair until his prick stiffened.

Sherlock made little noises, his lips barely parting

“My, my, my.” 

Mycroft took Sherlock’s prickhead in his mouth and suckled a little. Sherlock flopped towards him. Mycroft took more of the shaft. Then he pulled off and rolled Sherlock away to a few sweet whimpers of protest.

Bending and bracing himself Mycroft slid his prick between Sherlock’s clasped thighs until he came. Then he rolled Sherlock flat on his back and finished sucking him off.

Sherlock came with no noise, only a single full-bodied jerk. When Mycroft looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were still closed and his face peaceful.

Mycroft crawled into bed, careful to avoid the wet spot, and pulled the covers up over them both.

* * *

Sherlock woke to darkness and the delicious heat of Mycroft’s body warming the bed beside him. An unpleasant dampness told him he’d been used while he slept, which sent a frisson of pleasure through his body. Thigh-fucking. Mycroft wasn't cruel enough to plough his hole thrice in one night. Not with a dragon prick like his.

The strange effect of the eggnog had worn off, but it wasn’t a new day yet, and Sherlock wanted one more fuck before he had to face the world. And apparently Mycroft did, too, or he wouldn’t have still be there.

Sherlock snuggled backward, slotting his back to Mycroft’s chest and brought his brother’s hand to his own balls.

Mycroft hummed sleepily into Sherlock’s neck and, as Sherlock had anticipated, began fondling him.

Sherlock sighed. He settled into the wonderful sensation of being played with by someone who knew just what he liked. He let his thoughts wander.

* * *

When Sherlock reached a decision, his knee was bent, and Mycroft was strumming fingers absentmindedly along his perineum.

Sherlock turned his head and whispered, “My?”

“Mm?”

“I don’t want to take my medicine.”

Sherlock snapped his legs together, and Mycroft drew his hand back.

“You must,” said Mycroft, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Shan’t.”

“Naughty.”

“Can’t make me.”

“Can.”

Sherlock trembled with anticipation. His prick was hard, and he desperately wanted Mycroft to touch him.

“Can’t!”

Then it was a test of strength, Sherlock trying to keep his legs together and Mycroft, with his strong hands, trying to pry them apart.

Eventually, once Mycroft was fully awake, he won, pinning Sherlock’s legs open with fingers that dug brutally into Sherlock’s flesh.

The bedclothes were thrown off, and Mycroft was dipping his head over and over, licking balls, licking perineum, licking hair and crevices, licking up and down the shaft, licking prickhead. Sloppy, drooling, wet licking. Over and over. Like big, silly, horse-hung dog.

Sherlock made a show of struggling to free himself and whined plaintively, but Mycroft held him fast.

“Put some sugar with my medicine, My.”

At this, Mycroft swallowed Sherlock’s prick, and Sherlock planted two flat feet on the bed and did his best to fuck Mycroft’s mouth.

When he’d spent, Sherlock sat up on one elbow and, with mouth open, watched while Mycroft jerked himself off, eventually decorating on Sherlock’s tongue, lips, and even the tip of his nose.

Then Sherlock fell back with a contented sigh. Mycroft gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek and picked up his dressing gown.

“No?” asked Sherlock, sitting up, folded on his knees, He turned away then looked over his shoulder then batted his eyelashes as he stroked a bare expanse of skin on his neck.

Mycroft chuckled softly and dropped the dressing gown. "You little minx..."

* * *

Sherlock wiped the fogged mirror with the corner of his towel.

He smiled at the fresh mottled spot on his neck and imagined of the matching one on Mycroft’s. Always nice to wear one’s best baubles on the first day of the year, he thought fancifully.

He let the towel drop and saw the finger marks on his hips, trying to fit his own fingers over the pattern. That chair in Mycroft’s study really wasn’t made for enthusiastic fornication of any variety. They could’ve cracked both their heads open, and then where would they have been?

Sherlock tried to spread his thighs, but the angle was all wrong and the basin hid much. He lifted his leg and hooked one heel on the basin.

Oh, now, there were some beauties.

“Sherlock.”

Mycroft was fully dressed in the doorway.

“Shut the door. It’s cold,” griped Sherlock.

Mycroft obliged. Then he moved behind Sherlock and slipped his hand gently around Sherlock’s hips to put his fingers over the bruises about Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock laid his hands atop Mycroft’s, and they both stared in the mirror.

Sherlock turned his head and indulged in one mewl. Mycroft did the same and made one grunt.

Then Sherlock dropped his leg and snatched up a dressing gown. He gave Mycroft the once-over in the mirror.

“Third best suit?”

“Second,” corrected Mycroft with a smooth of his hand over his waistcoat buttons.

“Nope. Navy blue with grey pinstripe’s nicer.”

“Your taste is questionable, Sherlock.”

“My taste,” said Sherlock, whipping round and giving Mycroft a hard kiss, in which he forced his plundering tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, “is delectable.” He slurped and wiped his hand with his sleeve. “Happy new year, Brother Mine.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and spun on his heels. He opened the door, calling behind him,

“And to you, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Happy New Year!


End file.
